


Jackson: No Escaping Gravity

by theinstinct



Series: Break This Bittersweet Spell [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU: Jackson's blue eyes, Death, F/M, M/M, Missing Scene, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:31:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinstinct/pseuds/theinstinct
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson had died twice. </p>
<p>The first time, he hadn't gone willingly, but that was only because no one had asked his opinion. </p>
<p>The second time, he'd asked for it. </p>
<p>Instead of a light at the end of a tunnel, he found himself in a lake again, crawling out of it into yet another dark forest. He had never believed in things like instinctual or ancestral knowledge, but he couldn't shake the feeling that what he saw in that mist-shrouded woods meant something. </p>
<p>The only way he could ever hope to understand was to go back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jackson: No Escaping Gravity

It turned out that death really was the end of pain. 

He wanted to say that he was floating, but you had to have a body in the first place to float at all. He wanted to say that it was like defying gravity, like being bodiless and without mass, but it was hard to keep a handle on just what _gravity_ and _mass_ and _bodiless_ meant. Come to think of it, what was 'he'? 

'He' was a tightness. 'He' was a pressure attempting to keep him from falling. Or was he floating? 'He' was the chill of midnight air stealing over dripping skin. A sharp sound broke the heavy silence and 'he' was a gasp of breath, too. 'He' was the sum of all that and more. 'He' was a body––made of ectoplasm, maybe, but likelier, he was flesh and bone. 'He' was damp hair, heaving chest, muscles trembling from the cold, bones remembering the weight of air and water and his own skin. 'He' was the only moving thing in the darkness, at least, until every single particle around him settled down––or, 'he' settled down and slotted into reality again. 

He was the creature that animated this projected form, because he remembered that he had died, and once you died, you let go of the fleshy meat suit that tethered you among the living. The confusion that had plagued him all his life finally cleared like a curtain, and for the first time, he knew exactly what was going on around him. 

He was the unnamed orphan, and he was finally where he belonged. 

He was Jackson Whittemore, and he had chosen to come here. 

Jackson looked down and _déjà vu_ rolled over him. It was strange, then, that when he found nothing but whole, white skin, he was surprised. He couldn't remember what he was meant to find there. The water he had been standing waist-high in turned out to be a large lake whose mirror surface rippled when he started for the bank. There was no moon to light his way, but Jackson saw easily enough in the greyness of the woods. It was only when he had mud and rotten leaves under his feet that he realised that the greyness was ground-hugging mist and a subtle, fruity fragrance that he couldn't quite put his finger on. 

A soft breeze marched fingers along the bare skin of his back and seemed to breathe, _Jackson, Jackson_ , in his ear. 

Were those the voices of the dead? Why would any of them bother with him? Would he finally see his birth parents?

The breeze came again, tickling over the cup of his ear and leaving a quiet summons echoing there. 

Jackson stumbled, his feet sinking into the wet mounds of leaves that carpeted the forest floor. The wetness lent an unsettling fleshiness to the leaves clinging to his ankles and feet, and he was abruptly reminded of rotting flesh. No. No, no, no. No, it reminded him of the soft give and resistance of his hands buried in the cavities of the people he had sliced open with his claws. 

"Jackson."

He went very still. 

But if this was death and the dead had no business with the living anymore, Jackson supposed that he had no use for fear, now. He could be completely honest, because he was alone here. The voice was his own conscience telling him what he needed to hear, and maybe it was the last of his unfinished business. When he faced this spectre, would a door open for him? 

Jackson turned around and his heart stopped. He hadn't even been aware that it had been beating. 

"Jackson."

_It's just a voice,_ Jackson reminded him. _It's just your mind trying to sort things out for you. You need to move on._

Matt stood just before him, looking exactly as he had the last time Jackson had seen him. Not when he had died, no, but when Jackson had pulled him out of Lydia's pool the split second before everything faded into nothingness again. Matt was wet, his blond hair a light brown in the gloaming and a comma of it straggling into his right eye. The water tugging on his striped shirt made him seem smaller and vulnerable in a way that Jackson had never really seen Matt. 

_Liar. You knew what he was. You know why he is the way he is._ Was. Because Matt had died. 

"It's finished. I was ready to wait, but you came soon enough." Matt was holding a hand out to him. The feverish light Jackson had become so accustomed to seeing in those pale blue eyes was gone. This was a stranger he had never known except in half-forgotten nightmares and dreams––or were those memories, too? 

"Why did you need to wait?" Jackson couldn't tack on 'for me' even though that was what he meant. He wasn't afraid of Matt. Not anymore. Truth be told, he couldn't remember anymore why he had filled him with such dread before. 

"Need?" Matt gave Jackson that vaguely scornful smile that Jackson had seen before, when Matt clearly thought that someone was being ridiculous. "I didn't need to. I wanted to." He took a step closer; Jackson frowned when the air seemed to shimmer and steam around Matt. 

"Come with me." Matt had no regard for personal space and his hand was hot against the back of Jackson's neck when he leaned in closer. And Jackson just stood there and let Matt move in so close. "It will be better, I promise. _I_ will be better. I won't–– break you apart and ground you up, because I know what you're hiding, now. I didn't before. I thought I was the only one. _Don't we all think that?_ " 

Jackson shouldn't need to breathe anymore, but his chest still felt tight and his throat burned. This wasn't just a construct his mind had made up as a coping mechanism, or to convince him to finally shrug off the mortal coil. He started to back away, but Matt held him in place, their faces so close now that their noses bumped together when Matt went on, his warm breath caressing over Jackson's mouth, "I saw, Jackson. I saw the damage and the mess and I still think that you're perfect. Beautiful. And I should know, because I've spent a lot of my time capturing beauty and immortalising it." 

There couldn't be any harm in saying yes. None whatsoever. There was nothing beyond this, anyway, and going with Matt only meant letting go. 

His mouth moved and he couldn't form a yes. "No. No, not you."

"Well." Matt's smile died and his face became considering. The sound of his heartbeat seemed to cut off entirely. "Then I guess we'll have to dig deeper."

It turned out that there was still pain beyond death. 

Jackson couldn't even yelp as pain stabbed at his nape, of all places. One, two, three, all the marks on the back of his neck peeled open, spilling something thick and viscous down his back. That something viscous was black, like when he had been sick after Derek had bitten him.

Matt wrestled him to the ground, punching and kicking and clawing at him, as Jackson twisted like an eel, churning up the mud and the leaves. He cursed and yelled and hit back, but none of it seemed to deter Matt. Jackson thought that Matt would continue to hit him, but he shoved Jackson's head down into the dirt so hard that Jackson thought that he'd broken his nose, and ripped at the back of his neck, instead.

At least, that was what it felt like. It felt like Matt had worked fingers or _claws_ into the open wounds there. Jackson started screaming when Matt started to _pull_ something out of him, and that something was stuck in his very flesh. Purple, white, blue, yellow,––it didn't matter, because it was all red with his blood, but he remembered the smell. Jackson would never forget that cloying sweet scent and the milky bitterness underneath that.

Jackson didn't know where he found the strength, but he thrashed and struggled wildly. He bucked and shoved Matt off him, and he didn't even hesitate to get up and _run_. The sight of Matt, bleeding black from eyes and nose and ears with giant claws where his fingers should have been, sent panic and fear coursing through him. 

Matt's footfalls became heavier and heavier until the forest ground shook with it. 

Jackson chanced a look over his shoulder and found a wolf where Matt had been. It was massive, as large as a damn horse, and ghostly white. Its eyes were an electric blue and were trained on him. It stopped for a heartbeat and threw back its head, letting loose a long, mournful howl. Jackson almost fell when a dozen voices joined the lonely song. 

He had continued to run when the giant wolf had stopped to howl at the dark sky, but whatever relief he might have felt at putting distance between him and the wolf was quickly wiped away when the wolf started to give chase again. It was faster than he could ever hope to be.

Jackson didn't stop running, but the wolf slammed into him, anyway, knocking him over into the lake again. It tore at him, stripping the very flesh from his bones, and it twisted around him so he couldn't escape. He sank. He fell. He plummeted. His end was imminent and inescapable, like gravity itself. 

The wolf shoved its snout up under his cracked ribcage and ate his heart. 

Jackson saw the light, then. But when it died down, he was in the warehouse. He was in the warehouse and he had an armful of Lydia, just like he had had before the lake. Jackson knew that he had come a full circle when he hugged Lydia close and buried his face in her neck to draw in the scent of home, only to recognise the elusive scent in the mist in her raspberry perfume.

He had never believed in things like instinctual or ancestral knowledge, but he couldn't shake the feeling that what he saw in that mist-shrouded woods meant something.

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write some of the missing scenes in a series separate from [Filthy Water Can't Be Washed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/518540/chapters/915951) even though it's all in the same AU. It's mostly for me to get into the heads of the characters, especially since the show never got into much detail regarding the things that aren't directly related to the plot. I write character profiles too, but those aren't as fun to read.
> 
> This series will be focused on the death scenes or death-related scenes of several characters. I'm starting off with Jackson because my fic focuses on him the most, but I have plans for chapters revolving around Matt, Lydia, Isaac, and possibly Peter. Maybe Derek too, if I regain my muse for him. I didn't tag this series with major character death because none of them stay dead. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this! I had fun writing it.


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